


History

by esteefee



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-13
Updated: 2011-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 01:12:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny shares some history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History

**Author's Note:**

> Tiny spoiler for 01x20.

Steve looked down and winced as he stepped around the flattened carcass of a rat. "So, tell me again why we're here, Danny? Because, I have to tell you, last night I turned on the bathroom light and there were," Steve swallowed, "things. Lots of _things_ , all moving really fast to try to hide."

"Ahhh. Roaches." Danny grinned as he kept walking.  He'd been grinning since they got here.  He held his fingers apart. "Those are just the little ones. You should get a load of the big, flying motherfuckers. They come in the summers sometime. And to answer your question, my friend, we are in my home town for this—" He lifted his arm as they passed an old guy with newspapers, and before Steve could blink, the guy had tucked the rolled-up paper under Danny's arm, and Danny had dropped some change in fellow's hand without stopping.

" _That_ ," Danny said with satisfaction two seconds later.  "Exactly that—I passed old Sammy every single day on my way to work, and we had the same exact transaction.  That's what a guy wants, you know? _Order_ , routine—"

"No human contact," Steve muttered, not even trying to smile anymore at the people passing him on the street.  They all looked at him like he was psycho if he even tried.

"Hey, I know Sammy's name, don't I?  I talked to him once.  Saw he had a brace on his wrist; turned out he got carpal tunnel from rolling up newspapers."

"He seems better now."

"Yeah."

"And it looked like he really missed you while you were away."

Danny gave him a glare.  "Okay, so, maybe we aren't close and intimate like you folks over there, where everyone is so happy to see everyone with the _aloha_ this and that—"

Steve flipped his one good hand. "Whatever.  Where we heading, anyway?"  


"Well, coming up here on the left is the _real_ reason we're here."

"You mean it's not for the chorizo special last night, which gave me the runs? Or, I know—you missed the hundred and ten percent humidity.  Christ, I feel like my lungs are drowning."

Danny stopped and gave him an overly patient look.  "Because I am home, and filled with the gladness in my heart which is the overflowing cup of human compassion, and because you still have that cast on your arm, which is why we are here in the first place and which in _spite_ of you can't seem to help waving your piece around, I am not going to pop you one for trash-talking my city of Hoboken, or the wonders therein.  Instead, I'm going to take you into this here diner, one of the only places left that serves the kind of crap coffee real detectives like to drink."

"And this is good because why?"

"You'll see."  Danny pushed the door open and led him into an old-style diner with a long, rounded counter and red, vinyl-topped stools.  Steve followed Danny to a pair that were free and sat down, then immediately winced when the cracked seat pinched the skin of his thigh. 

"Hey, Sal," Danny said, and a short, plump woman with a poofy, blond wig came trundling over.

"Danny!  Hey, Greta, it's Detective Williams!  He's come on home to us. How you doin', honey?  Where you been?"

"I've been trapped in the land of pineapples and sunshine," Danny said.  "I want you to meet my new partner, Steve."

Sal snapped her gum and gave Steve a considering look, then flashed him a smile, revealing lipstick on her teeth.  "Nice to meet ya.  What can I get you boys?"

"We'll have two cups regular to go, and the breakfast special."

"You got it, lamb-chop."

Danny smiled so wide Steve was afraid his cheeks would split.  It made him smile too, and he turned away because probably jumping his favorite guy in a diner in Jersey would be a bad idea. Instead, he took in the old, rusted signs nailed to the walls advertising _Coca-Cola_ and _Hot! Buttered! Popcorn!_ and _Homemade Pies_.  When he turned back, Danny was still smiling, a little sadly now, with a paper cup of coffee in his hand.

"This, Steven, is a sight you won't get to see for much longer.  This is why we're here." 

Steve frowned.  "For a cup of coffee?"

"For _this_ cup of coffee."  Danny held up the blue-and-white patterned cup.  "See this? The guy who designed this cup survived the Nazis and came here in the 30s. Just some poor immigrant schmuck.  He got a job in a cup factory, designing paper cups. What a thing, I mean—that's got to be the American dream, right?" Danny chuckled a little. "So, because most of the diners around are owned by Greek immigrants, he puts a Greek theme on the cups to snazzy 'em up, which, right—this guy was a monster advertising genius of his time, he was wasted in the cup industry.  Then he hustles around selling them like hotcakes, and that's all she wrote."  Danny nodded with satisfaction.  "These cups were pretty much _the_ coffee cup around here since I was a kid. You couldn't walk ten feet without tripping over one.  Until now.  Now that Starbucks and like them are all big, the cup company is going out of business. So, they'll be gone soon."

"That's too bad. It's a nice cup," Steve said, feeling out of his depth. He always knew Danny had more going on than what he let on, but this was like—like opening a window, maybe.  Or a vault.   

"Thing is, this is the same cup I drank crap coffee from every day, dogging it when I was a greenie in uniform on the beat—" and all of a sudden Steve could see it, see Danny in his uniform, cap over his eyes and blond hair tucked underneath, shiny badge on his chest, "—to when I was pulling those late nights that drove Rachel crazy because she was home with baby Grace, and me working overtime hoping to keep us all afloat."  Danny took a sip and made a face.  "Yeah, and it still tastes the same, too." 

Steve drank a little himself and grimaced.  It already had cream and sugar in it, and it tasted like watery, semi-sweet acid. The cardboard was stiff, though—it didn't seem to need a sleeve to keep from burning his hand.  He put a little more sugar in, using the heavy, glass sugar container, watching as the grains spilled from under the little hinged top. 

Danny smiled at him in satisfaction and took the canister from his hand.  "See, I'll turn you into a Jersey cop, yet."

Raising his cup, Steve tipped it against Danny's, suddenly getting it.  It was all on one side all the time, Danny being in Hawaii and never getting to show Steve any of this.  And yeah, the cockroaches were disgusting, but it was cool seeing this part—Danny's easy flirting with Greta when she came from the kitchen to personally dump their greasy breakfast specials on the counter in front of them, and the way Danny's eyes took in the little diner with satisfaction—the slow-moving fan blades over the center, and the low murmurs of the folks having their breakfasts, their accents lazy in a different way from the Islands.  Greta made a biting comment when Steve didn't finish his eggs, and after she left, Danny's rude, sarcastic aside was laid thick with affection that Steve could recognize so easily in the context of these people with their gruff teasing. 

"Where to, next?" Steve said, eager now.  He dropped a few extra bills on top of Danny's tip, and saw Danny grin.

"Well, I thought it was high time you saw a professional baseball game, partner. I hear the Yankees are playing." 

"Bring it on."  Steve smiled, and Danny put his hand on Steve's shoulder as he got up, as if he needed the boost.  But his hand lingered, and Steve looked up, catching an expression he couldn't quite decipher.

He didn't need to, though.  It was all there in the warmth of Danny's hand, and in the history Danny had laid out before Steve's feet, in paper cups and newspapers and the dirty pavement they would walk down together on the way to the ballpark.  And the stories Danny would tell along the way.

"I'm glad you brought me," Steve said as they stepped outside. 

"Yeah?"  Danny sounded pleased.  Jeez, he almost sounded grateful, and Steve had to put a stop to that.

"I'm really fucking glad you brought me," Steve repeated, and damned if he didn't sound a little rough. It was worth it though, to see the broad smile on Danny's face.

They walked down the street, elbows brushing lightly, careful not to spill the contents of their upheld cups.

Steve intended to keep his. He was pretty sure Danny did, too.

 

 _End_

**Author's Note:**

> [An image of the Parthenon Cup](http://immigrations-ethnicities-racial.blogspot.com/2010/09/origin-of-iconic-new-york-city-paper.html), designed by Czech immigrant Leslie Buck (Laszlo Büch) and extremely popular in the Tri-State area from the 60s until recently. Laszlo survived Auschwitz and Buchenwald to immigrate to the United States after WWII.
> 
> You can [buy ceramic versions](http://www.nycup.com/shop.html) of the classic to immortalize the Partho cup experience if you so wish. :)


End file.
